“I was a drunken sot last night, unaware of what I was saying or to whom. God knows what I told Stock in my heedless ramblings. ”
“God knows indeed,” Phipps echoed.
There was a silence. Phipps waited expectantly, trying to read the emotions reflected in Keable’s face. He read there caution and uncertainty and yet also an impulse to unburden a secret, and that was what intrigued Phipps the most.
“By which prayer I presume you know more about our dead comrades than you have publicly allowed?”
Keable looked up with a mild surprise, and Phipps made a sympathetic face. Inside, a surge of self-congratulation warmed his heart and increased his confidence. “You may speak freely here. Although I’m no priest, yet you may count me as a friend who prizes discretion above all the world. Remember, too, it was I who warned you about Stock. Perhaps we can exchange information.”
“What do you mean by ‘exchange’?’’
‘‘You know, Keable, tit for tat. Quid pro quo. Word it how you will.”
Keable looked long and hard at Phipps, as though trying to find the soul of the man behind his offer to bargain. Then, with an expression that suggested the effort was futile, he said: ‘ ‘You know there was found among Giles’s things a list of names.”
“That’s no secret,” Phipps said quickly. “It was found in his shoe. An artless concealment.”
“Braithwaite was on the list.”
‘‘He was—and what if he was? Your wounding of him was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Upon my honor,” said Keable earnestly. “Although honesty compels me to admit my damned hot temper had a hand in it.”
Phipps dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If our minds follow the same path, you fear this list of Giles was a death list.”
Keable nodded.
“And what if it is, so our names not be numbered there?” Phipps said, leaning back in his chair and letting his voice rise to its normal pitch. “Come, Keable. I agree Stock’s presence gives cause for worry. But do not despair. As I said last night, to be forewarned is to be forearmed. It lies upon us only to keep our heads and guard our tongues. Unless, of course, you know of some more compelling reason for concern—?”
Phipps left the question hanging; there was another long pause as the two men eyed each other, seeming to search among the fragments of their brief relationship for a basis of mutual trust. Phipps could tell that Keable was still doubtful. His eyes had the wary expression of one playing at cards with a suspected cheat. Phipps could tell too that Keable knew something, something he was at great pains to keep hidden. Phipps was determined to have the secret out if he only could before Hutton returned, for the clerk felt the time of revelation was now or never.
Phipps held his breath in anticipation; and when he was beginning to fear all his angling would fetch up nothing, Keable leaned forward and, with an expression of relief and gratitude to have the thing out at last, took the bait.
Matthew found it no easy work getting Braithwaite upstairs. Braithwaite was big-boned, and while they carried him, he complained of his injury and heaped abuse upon Keable, whom he called a besotted mad knave and a disgrace to all lawyers. The little company of Good Samaritans was followed by an even larger contingent, who, having apprised themselves of the incident, tagged along more out of morbid curiosity than concern for Braithwaite.
When they arrived at the injured man’s chambers, they were met by his chamberfellow, Adam Foxe, who, although not present during the combat, had already received word of its consequences and appeared genuinely alarmed at Braithwaite’s condition. Braithwaite was helped out of his clothes and put to bed. Then the Treasurer came with the surgeon, whose name, Matthew learned presently, was John Leyland. Leyland was a stout, neatly dressed man in his thirties with swarthy complexion, a broad forehead, heavy brows, and a beard with an Italian cut. He carried a black satchel full of implements of his art, and numerous vials and flasks. Hutton ordered the gawkers to their chambers to “let the poor man breathe, ” as he put it. Matthew and Thomas stayed to watch, as did Osborne, who, despite his protest to the contrary, was now expressing regret for his part in the accident, for he admitted that his own quarrel with Keable had fueled the latter’s fire.
Braithwaite, who had ceased complaining since his arrival in his chamber, cried out in agony as the doctor lifted the arm and removed the makeshift bandage to examine the wound. Leyland shook his head, and then pulled out a great wad of clean cloth from his satchel and prepared a new dressing, mumbling all the while about the incompetence of those who thought they could do a skilled physician’s work but knew not the art.
When he was finished with the dressing he drew a vial from the satchel, poured some of its contents into a spoon,
and fed it to Braithwaite, who did not stint to take it. “What you need, young sir,” said Leyland, “is a good night’s sleep. There’s no substitute for a good night’s sleep. That means, sir, no more ranting and raving. You must lie still and be quiet.”
Braithwaite seemed to accept this counsel. He leaned back on his pillow and shut his eyes. Hutton turned to Foxe and said: “You must be your chamberfellow’s nurse during his convalescence. It will be your duty both as a Templar and as a Christian.”
Foxe, a thin, sallow-faced youth, agreed, although he did not appear eager to have the assignment. “But, sir, what of Master Donne’s lecture—I would not miss that for the world.”
“Braithwaite will spare you the while, Foxe,” said Hutton with a placating smile. “I suppose the good doctor’s medication will serve to keep this gentleman asleep for several hours.”
A few moments later, as Matthew and Thomas descended the stairs with the portly Treasurer, Hutton said: “This Master Donne young Foxe spoke of is a quondam student of the Inns who since became secretary to Sir Thomas Egerton. It is said that in youth, Donne sowed many a wild oat, wrote naughty verses he passed among his friends, and pressed his favors on many ladies of the court. He made a secret and disastrous marriage with Sir Thomas’s niece, Ann, as a result of which he was dismissed from his employer’s service and deprived of his wife’s dowry. He now pecks and scratches amid the ruins of his career for the wherewithal to live, whilst some of his friends urge him to take Holy Orders, so gifted a speaker he is. Tonight he speaks in the Hall by arrangement of one of his good friends, Henry Shadley.”
Matthew tried to sound interested in the man Donne, the writer of naughty verses and martyr of love, but he could not so readily dismiss the image of poor Braithwaite on his bed. He deeply regretted he had not contrived to speak to the young man before his wounding in the Hall. Somehow he felt the moment of opportunity had passed, without being sure why. Braithwaite would recover, would he not? Was the wound so serious? Leyland the physician had not thought so, and once put to bed, Braithwaite had seemed better—at least in disposition.
Yet Matthew could not shake a sense of foreboding. Hutton did not seem to share Matthew’s concern for the wounded man. As the three men continued to walk back to the Hall, Hutton rambled on about the antiquities of the Middle Temple, what person of note had occupied what chamber and in what dimly recalled year. The Middle Temple was indeed peopled with shades of the dead, Matthew thought, and Hutton reveled in their presence, quite forgetting, it seemed, the living but mysteriously imperiled Braithwaite.
Eleven
IN the Great Hall, Matthew fed on mutton leg and savory pork pie, salted and peppered to his liking and washed down with a manly black ale, the best he had ever had. Aloft in the gallery, a trio of musicians played sweetly, their delightsome strains raining down but wasted on so small an audience, for many of those who might have enjoyed the music otherwise, Matthew was told, had gone to Westminster to see some ceremony enacted.
After dinner, taking Leyland’s word that Braithwaite would sleep many hours, Matthew secured Hutton’s permission to examine the records of the Inn, the Minute Book, as it was called.
This was tedious work
, Matthew presently discovered, who was no clerk happy to spend a long afternoon of eye-strain and hunched back. Helplessly ignorant in the face of Latin phrases and Law French, he made what he could of fines and exactions, rules and regulations, elections and appointments. He was not sure what he sought, nor were his labors rewarded by any new wisdom regarding the Templar murders. He wanted to pierce the veil that obscured the true connection of the victims, find the common ground between
them other than their membership in the Middle Temple. But how?
At six he shut the Minute Book and went to supper, hungry again even though he had done nothing for hours but sit and read. But he was miserable at table. The musicians who had delighted before had been replaced by a half dozen incompetents who Matthew swore had been dragged in off the streets and told to play for their supper, and the Hall was crowded and noisy. The constant talk at table about the ceremony at Westminster bored him, and after no more than a day in chambers, he was passing weary of lawyers and their works.
It was true that his first impression of the Middle Temple had been favorable. Here, he had supposed, was a serious gathering of scholars. Men of intelligence. Men of learning. Men of gravity and probity. But his recent observations had stirred doubts, and the same doubts had quickly grown to conviction. For where before the colorful ritual of Templar life had pleased him, he now found it false and cloying. What a pretense of noble purpose was here. What strutting and posturing and backbiting and knavishness. Behind trapping and traditions lurked what? Greed, ambition, lust, covetousness—all the deadly sins by which man estranged himself from his fellows and offended the Almighty. Why, Matthew asked himself, had these young men—the cream of England-gathered here? To leam Justice and serve Her? Many would be lucky to escape hanging! To cultivate the arts and sciences? Indeed, if such could be cultivated in taverns and leaping houses.
As for those who devoted themselves to the serious study of the law, they too were at fault. Why had they chosen to become lawyers? To see Justice done? To preserve the rights of the downtrodden and disadvantaged? The poor had not the wherewithal to pay the lawyers’ fees. How, then, should they be served? Let them go hang! Or starve! Or beg to God in Heaven for redress.
Had these not become lawyers, rather, to seek the advantages of power by which one might exercise unrighteous dominion, marry well, set traps and snares for the unwary, and,
ironically, subject their own selves to a higher level of temptation that could ordinary mortals who were not lawyers?
So Matthew believed. For it had ever been so. Of all professions, the lawyer’s was the most condemned by the laity. Yet his place was one of the most coveted, for there was never yet a doting parent ashamed to admit his son was a lawyer. Still, Matthew considered, no man was more trusted because he was a lawyer. Or more loved. None fairer of face, straighter of limb, in better health, or in a surer way to Heaven. No man was by legal education made more true of word, compassionate, just, dependable.
So Matthew considered the matter.
Supper done, the long trencher tables cleared of bones, crusts, dirty plates, and wiped clean too, there was no rush to the doors, but the company stayed, and if anything, it grew, enlarged by those who had missed supper or were come from the City as visitors and wore no gown nor cap of the company, but splendid clothes the value of a modest country household. Then Hutton rose from his chair, and where all was talk and laughter before, the whole Hall now fell into a respectful silence. Matthew turned his attention tc the man seated to Hutton’s right.
Matthew had not been introduced to this personage, but from what he had observed during the evening, he surmised this was the celebrated Master Donne. Donne was a man of about thirty, with a long, thoughtful face, pale complexion, and a wispy moustache that drooped at the comers, giving him a somewhat melancholy expression. Hutton introduced Donne as a former student of Gray’s Inn and as a man of considerable learning and wit. He said nothing of the poems, and Matthew supposed Hutton did not think them significant, or perhaps he was embarrassed by their reported contents. When he finished, Donne arose to great applause.
Standing, Donne was not an imposing presence. He was dressed in a dark gray doublet with silver buttons and simple collar, and he was not tall. But he had a well-modulated voice that carried like an actor’s, and he spoke with the easy assurance of one used to debate. He pleased his listeners by commencing with a promise. He would not speak at length, he said, for he wished not to keep the young gentlemen from their nocturnal studies (laughter). He said he knew well how attractive were the pleasures of the town—he had been to a tavern or two in his day (more laughter), where he had encountered many a gowned barrister or judge holding court out of session (thunderous laughter and cries of “True, true”). But tonight he wanted to address a somber theme, and saying this, he frowned as though this were the very moment of the theme’s conception. It was a paradox, he said, and one by which he hoped to demonstrate that an agile mind could make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. His theme was die proposition that women were possessed of souls.
He had no sooner uttered these words than polite silence changed to boisterous laughter, and the applause following was mixed with hooting and catcalls and other vociferous denials of the proposition. Undismayed, and indeed, slightly amused, by the expression of merriment in his face, Donne forged ahead, gathering together such a twisting and turning of reasons and proofs and quoting of old authors, half of whom Matthew had never heard, that Matthew quickly lost interest. For himself, Matthew had no doubt that women had souls, and the whole idea of maintaining the contrary seemed a dubious enterprise at best. But the audience seemed to hang on Donne’s every word. At each turn of the argument, he received applause—or more good-humored protests. Matthew had never seen a company of men take such pleasure in an event where there was neither music to delight the ear nor some spectacle to please the eye, but all was words, words, words, many of which, in Latin or Greek with no translation offered, were beyond his ken.
Phipps found a place in the rear of the Hall and considered himself fortunate because of the crowd. He had forgone supper for a late afternoon nap and now felt refreshed, but while those around him gave a ready ear to the speaker’s wit, Phipps was thinking about the tale Keable had told earlier.
It had been a sort of meeting, Keable had said. Not a casual gathering, of that Keable had been certain. It had taken place at a late hour in Litchfield’s chambers behind closed
doors and with a strong interest in privacy, for when Keable had heard a stir within and gone that way looking for someone to drink with, they had treated him like a stray cur come scratching at the door. Litchfield had asked if Keable knew what a late hour it was, Keable went on, mimicking Litchfield’s voice, and a good job too, Phipps thought. “I warrant you have wine enough in your own chambers without begging of your neighbors.” Keable had referred to the dead man as an insolent bastard for such a scurvy reply.
Keable, according to his account, had pushed himself in, then seen the company. All but one, standing in the comer, in the bad light, the face turned away for shame or secrecy; Keable now suspected the latter. Litchfield, Monk, Braith-waite, Giles, and the unidentified one. Probably he who was called Prideaux—all the names upon the list in some sort of secret convocation. Keable had noticed no cards or dice at play, no filthy drawings being passed around, no hot whore spread-legged upon the bed. What else could it have been but witchcraft or conspiracy? Keable had theorized.
Phipps reckoned there were two reasons men conspired in secret societies, and each the close cousin of the other: power and money. Given the membership of the group, Phipps discounted power. He had known Litchfield and the others well, and there was not the brain or stomach amongst them to strive for power. Had one of them spoken out against the Queen, been of such religious fervor to inspire a rebellion or join its ranks, or had the inkling of an interest in who was in and who was out at Court, Phipps might have suspected otherwise. But each of the dead
men—and Braithwaite too—had been true if unheroic sons of the Church, members of the stolid gentry. Even Giles, with his puritanical Bible reading and quoting, seemed reasonably content that the Queen should rule and the bishops preen, although he had often been heard to vilify the latter as usurpers of unwarranted authority.
Which left money as motive, just as Phipps had always suspected, and why he had risked himself at the Gull with Litchfield’s mistress. Having lent money to Litchfield, Phipps knew his needs well enough. The raw youth had a natural gift of squandering. Monk too had been a moneygrubber. It had been said that Giles had debts, but Phipps wasn’t sure how much faith to put in that rumor. As for Braithwaite, he dressed well, spent freely, and talked of acquiring land in the near countryside.
But in his heart, Phipps knew there must be more that bound the men.
Something in the speaker’s words now drew Phipps from his ruminations. He listened a while, without laughing or applauding, taking Donne’s theme with a characteristic seriousness. The theme did not please him. Firmly convinced that women had no souls, Phipps could hardly take delight in an argument that subtly presupposed the contrary!
Donne’s voice faded in Phipps’s mind. He began to think about Braithwaite and what he should say to induce his confidence, for that had been the pact drawn up between Phipps and Keable, that, there being such a mountain of distrust and enmity between Keable and Braithwaite, it must be Phipps who wormed out Braithwaite’s secret, securing thereby a greater prospect of money, safety, or, he prayed, both.
The task, Phipps knew, could not be easy. He could not base his appeal on friendship, for there had been none between the men. Phipps knew Braithwaite held him in contempt, scorned him as an effeminate degenerate, made jokes behind his back, mocked his skinny legs, and mimicked his lisping speech. Yet Phipps had not come near to killing Braithwaite as Keable had done! Thanks be to God for that at least.
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